Her Quietus
by Seersha
Summary: Angel stays by Darla's side. Darla POV. AU fic set after the Season 2 episode "The Trial". Angel/Darla friendship.


**TITLE:** Her Quietus

**AUTHOR:** Seersha

**RATING:** T

**PAIRING:** Angel/Darla (friendship only)

**SPOILERS:** Season 2

**DISTRIBUTION:** Please do not archive anywhere. It will be up at FF if you would like to link to it.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own these characters (obviously) and no copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this fanfiction.

**TIMELINE: **AU fic set after the Season 2 episode "The Trial".

**SUMMARY:** Angel stays by Darla's side. Darla POV.

**NOTE: **The verse of poetry in the story was written by Oscar Wilde called "Desepoir". Quietus: release from life; death. Originally published December 2000.

.-.-.

"I'm not gonna leave you. Every moment you have left, I'm gonna be by your side. You're never gonna be alone again." - Angel to Darla, "The Trial"

.-.-.

It's been three weeks and the chair beside my bed hasn't moved once, save the time the shoe I threw scraped it an inch to the right. It's been three weeks and the person in the chair has barely stood out of it, moving only to go to the kitchen (and the once he had to jump from it to avoid getting hit by the shoe) or on the occasional evening when I insist that he needs a decent night's sleep

Opening my eyes groggily, I roll my head slightly to the side. The edge of the table seems further away than last time I looked, and I'm certain it hasn't been moved since then, so it must be my vision. My eyes are hardly ever open anymore. Not if I can help it. The only time I make a strained effort to keep them open is when he is here.

Now is one of those times, and when I reach shakily towards the table, his hand immediately grips mine. His hold is gentle, and I force my gaze to his face. His brow is furrowed in concern and his chocolate eyes are deep pools of worry. For me. He is worried for **me**.

"Don't," he commands softly, barely above a whisper, and he places my hand back on the bed beside me where I lay. "What do you want? I'll get it for you."

My mouth opens to answer, but as often happens now, I can't manage more than a strained, wet cough. I take a haggard breath, before trying again. "Water. I need some... water."

He twists slightly in the chair he is sitting in - the one that has been practically glued to the spot beside me since I have been confined to a bed - and he pours a glass of water, offering it to me. I reach both my trembling hands up to grip the slippery glass, but he refuses to let it go. Instead, he leans closer, helps me struggle to sit up a little, then holds the cool edge to my mouth and I drink a few sips... as many as I can manage before I am too weak and I collapse back down into the pillows that are sheathed in a pale blue cotton, trying to brighten the room and the mood, but failing miserably. I face away from him slightly, not wanting him to see the single, salty tear that slowly carves a path down my cheek.

"Thank you," I manage to croak out, the water not helping to keep the raw emotion out of my voice.

He puts the glass back down on the table and then draws his attention back to me. "I don't mind doing this for you."

I close my eyes and gather my thoughts. He knows, I realise, despite the fact that I haven't said anything. "I don't want your pity, Angel," I tell him flatly.

I can practically feel his face fall into a frown, and I open my eyes again, turning my head enough to look at him again. "No," he protests, "I'm not here because I pity you, Darla. I told you I would be here for you and that I wouldn't leave you. I'm not about to abandon you now, when you need me the most."

"I don't like you seeing me like this: all helpless and pathetic and... like some sort of vegetable that can barely reach for a glass of water!" And that's it; the tears I'd been holding back spill forth and I can't help but turn into a sobbing mess.

He shuffles forward and then his arms are around me. It feels strange - to have someone actually truly caring about me - and I resist a little, refusing to cooperate completely. After a minute, however, I don't have any energy left to do anything but let him hold me. His cool lips are pressing slightly against my ear and he makes shushing noises to try and soothe me. I feel like I'm suddenly very small, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel younger than all my 400 years of life. It's odd, too, feeling young and helpless, because I haven't felt either until recently and even now, my stomach still clenches at the notion.

Time passes differently now - especially since the night I found out that I was dying (again) and that this time, I would be dead for good. I wouldn't be able to wake up again - not in **any** state, and I'd just sit there in the dirt... rotting. As a vampire, time passed slowly because no matter how much of it went by, you could know it never ended. Becoming human again has meant that time passes quickly for me once more and that, eventually, it's going to run out. Now, laying here as my tears quieten and my moist face dries, I realise it's going to run out on me sooner than I can imagine and I am grateful for the incredible man beside me.

I move my hand to his cheek softly, and he opens his eyes, looking down at me. I can't remember when we both gave into the silence, but it's engulfed the room and in many ways, it's more soothing than his arms embracing me. He brings one up to cover my hand, then removes it and lays it back down, moving back to the chair, but keeping the close distance.

I take another painful breath, and for a moment, I hate the fact that I .-..-.-. to breathe at all. "I'm sorry," I tell him softly.

For a moment, he looks genuinely confused, and he shakes his head. "For what?"

"Everything," I confess. "I'm sorry for everything, Angel. I don't even know if you can understand just how sorry I am. And, I'm sorry for... putting you through this."

"Putting me though what?"

I can't believe he doesn't know what I mean. Or, maybe I think, he does and needs me to say it anyway. I make a noise - halfway between a laugh and a sob - and look deep into his eyes. "You're going to mourn for me... after... when I'm..." I swallow a lump in my throat as if saying the word would make my fate all that more plausible, "... dead. And you shouldn't, Angel." I shake my head as I speak, "You shouldn't mourn for me. I'm not worth it and you don't need to care about me. I've done so many things to you. You shouldn't go through any more grief because of me. You just... please don't mourn for me. Please."

His mouth is parted slightly and I know he can't believe I'm saying these things to him. I know he won't accept what I'm asking and I know no matter how much I don't want him to mourn or care for me, a part of me wants it so much it **hurts**.

"I can't do that, Darla," he says, choking on the words. "You know I can't. I **will** mourn for you. I **do** care, Darla. You must believe that."

"I..."

Angel leans forward and takes my hand in his, covering it with his own. "When you're gone, I'm going to miss you. I'm not going to find it hard to live without you, because I did that for a hundred years and I survived. But I am going to find it hard to remember you and not feel a deep pain inside. You made me, Darla. You and I are a part of each other whether we like it or not. I don't love you, not the way you deserve, but I do care about you more than I ever thought possible."

My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces, and more than anything, I want to shout to him 'No, Angel, you shouldn't mourn for me!' But I don't, knowing that I don't have the strength, either mental or physical. Instead I settle for trying to express what I feel through words.

"Care?" I chuckle bitterly, and I almost regret it because I know it hurts him. He's being genuine and I'm laughing in his face. "That could mean so many things Angel. You care about everybody... about the world... about humanity... about complete strangers. What makes you caring about me any different than you caring about the latest lost soul you have to save?"

I expect him to be upset, or perhaps angry, but he actually smiles slightly. It's a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"You're closer to my heart," he says simply. "You know me in a way that... not many others do or could. You knew me for a hundred and fifty years and in a big way, you made me who I was then. And now... now you know what it's like... to have a soul again." He pauses, tightens his grip on my hand a little. "I care about you because I can see your heart, Darla. It's still good... so very good."

"I think it's forgotten how to care back," I tell him fearfully, my voice cracking. "I want to remember what that's like, Angel, before I die."

"You do," he assures me.

"How?"

"I can see you care Darla, about me. We wouldn't have had any of these conversations tonight if you don't care."

"I feel like it's not enough. I owe you so much Angel. You've done so much for me and I wish I could do more for you."

"You don't need to do anything but care the way you do... the way you have. And that's what I'll remember about you when you're gone. I'll remember you like this."

"As a helpless imbecile confined to bed?" I ask, a sharp edge to my voice.

He shakes his head, denying. "No... as a human."

We let that hang in the air around us, and I realise for the first time that that is the way I want Angel to remember me. It wouldn't have been long ago I would have said that I wanted Angel to remember me the way I was... a vampire, but now I'm grateful for what has come. Angel is right, he doesn't love me the way I always wished he would... the way I love him, but whatever he feels for me is more than anyone has ever felt for me and I am calmed by the emotions. It is enough.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, I turn my head towards him once more and grab his hand, using what little strength I have left.

"Finish what you started before," I say, letting my tired eyelids drop shut slowly.

He takes an unneeded breath and reaches to pull out a draw under the table. I can hear the familiar rustle of paper and the turning of pages (this is a ritual we perform nearly every time he visits me) before he settles comfortably as I let myself be lulled to sleep by his smooth, silky voice whispering through the quiet air.

"But what of life whose bitter hungry sea

Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night

Covers the days which never more return?

Ambition, love and all thoughts that burn

We loose too soon, and only find delight

In withered husks of some dead memory."

.-.-.

END


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